Assassins
by czaplabtheswagmonster
Summary: "Hello, Matt, I want to play a game." Featuring the Russian continent, a Batmobile, the Hetalian mafia, white suburban gangsters, strawberry milkshakes, Berwald the Lunch Lady, Lovino's strut, and GAKUEN PRUCAN, with side FrUK and Spamano. And a bit of the old folks getting it on, too! Plot twist: THEY ALL DIE. Don't try this at home. Unless you PM me the results.
1. Enter Birdman

**A/N: Only one of them lives. I refuse to deus ex machina okay thanks.**

**New drinking game: every time you see parentheses, bottoms up.**

**Edited as of 9/4/12**

* * *

><p>Sup, fuckers. I'm Gilbert 'The Awesome' Beilschmidt, born 18 years ago, at which point the world exploded with awesomeness. I like all sports, especially yo-yoing, which I do indeed consider a sport. My favourite kitchen utensil is the potato masher, I know Esperanto, Mars Bars are my drugs, I once crashed a hangglider and wasn't even bruised, I turned our student body president gay – you get the idea; I'm <em>awesome.<em>

Naturally, in addition to being amazingly gorgeous, an astonishing athlete, and my high school's resident bamf, I have a razor-sharp intellect and a sparkling wit. (I _am_ awesome, after all.) Gilbert ideas are the best ideas ever. EVER. I am so awesome that I'm fully capable of coercing the German government into allowing me to be legally Prussian. Hell, I'm so awesome I can kill _three_ birds with one stone. And my awesome best friends, Francis Bonnefoy and Antonio Carriedo, have always been part of that. They've always helped the execution of my plans, and it's always been AWESOME.

Which is why I CAN'T understand WHY they won't agree to this.

(See? I'm using caps ALREADY. That means I'm ANGRY.)

"Guyyyys," I groan in a tone disturbingly close to a whine, "what's _wrong_ with you?" I plant a hand on my hip and treat the other two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio to a put-out glare. "This'll be AWESOME! We never fail, remember? Remember Soap Hour last year? And no-pants May? And the horse from Ag?"

Francis coughs. Antonio stares determinedly off to my left.

I stomp my foot, unbelievably frustrated. "Come _on! _We're graduating, remember? This is the last chance we have to solidify our legacy. Remember our fan club? Are we going to let them down?! It's all about the fans, remember? So why the fuck _not?_"

We've taken my car – a gorgeous black Mercedes-Benz with a sloppy yellow Batman emblem spray-painted on the hood – out for a joyride, and pulled it over on the side of the road (coincidentally, at what one refers to as an 'airy spot' in the White Mountains) to watch a rather lovely sunset. (Okay, that sounds pretty, well, homosexual. But everyone knows Tonio's in love with Lovino Vargas, and Franny goes for anything with a pulse, and I guess I'm biswekshual or whatever cause there have been several fantasies about Orlando Bloom and Ryan Gosling and one rather disturbing one involving a lightsaber and Robert Downey, Jr., so I figure we all have some sort of gay pass. Damn, I should print some of those out. 'THIS PERSON IS ALLOWED TO BE GAY IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. VALID THROUGH DECEMBER 31ST OR UNTIL CONFIRMED STRAIGHT. RAINBOWED ATTIRE, GLITTER, AND BEST FRIENDS NAMED JANIS ARE ENCOURAGED.') I think we're silhouetted in a really awesome way thanks to aforementioned sunset, but even that can't distract me from how stubborn my previously-deemed-awesome friends are being.

"Gilbert," Francis says patiently, "say it again, and listen to yourself."

I huff and start retelling my Idea.

(There was a capital letter there. Did you see it? It was Capitalized. That means it's important. Use them shift keys, kids!)

"Okay, so I got the idea when we were at the Vargas place…"

_FLASHBACK!_

Roma Vargas grins across the table at my little brother Ludwig and I. (Despite our age difference, Luddy and I are both seniors. I was too awesome for my kindergarten teacher, so she made up some excuse that sounded a bit like 'he needed to mature' or something. She also had bad breath, though, so I just put her in the Burn Book and moved along.) Roma's sons, Feliciano (who is chattering away to Ludwig) and Lovino, are happily digging into the mysterious Italian food. Ludwig (who is pretending to be an awkward grizzly bear with Feli) and I poke uncertainly at it – give us potatoes and beer any day. Our dad, Alistair Beilschmidt, is eating with his usual clinical apathy – I guess being friends with a Vargas your whole life gets you used to weird Italian stuff.

See, Little Bro and I are pretty close with the Vargas twins, but we probably wouldn't have been been if we'd just met them. They're like our cousins, which makes sense, because our fathers are pretty much brothers. Roma and Alistair have been best friends since kindergarten – proving that opposites really do attract, because Vati is your typical deadpanning, sarcastic, apathetic loner, and Roma is expressive and cheerful and loves pretty much everyone and everything. They've stayed close this whole time, moving back to their hometown when their respective wives died and pretty much raising their kids side by side.

The four of us have bets on how long it'll take them to get married.

So Roma – he's never let us call him Mr. Vargas – grins his huge grin and opens his mouth to say something with his insane Italian accent. If we hadn't known him our entire life, he probably would've scared the shit out of us…aw, shit, I'll say it, he terrifies me. So damn cheerful. Jesus Christ, he has the laugh of a lunatic. "So-a how-a is-a your-a senior year-a going so-a far-a?" Phew, it's a normal question. One of the stock ones that parents always ask. I've gotten 'how-a is-a your-a nose-a feeling today-a?' and worse before.

"It's good," I mumble into my fork, wishing heartily that the meal could be over. It's not weird like this around the twins – usually the four of us play COD or MW2 or (laugh and I'll kill you) hide and seek _**~EXTREME~**_ after dinner, but we have to wait for everybody to be done before we can get up, and, uh, have you ever tried to eat a meal where this insanely scary Italian guy is blatantly flirting with your vati and then your vati flirts BACK and then occasionally he starts interrogating YOU about something and and and…oh, fuck, it's AWKWARD.

"That's-a good-a," he smiles. "Ah, Ali!" he booms at my dad, who replies with a surprisingly expressive grunt. "Do-a you-a remember our-a senior year-a? Do-a you-a remember-a–"

"Ve are not telling zem about zat," Vati deadpans, lining tomatoes up in rows on his plate before systematically stabbing and eating them. I swear, you think _Luddy's_ OCD…

My head snaps up. Whispers attract more attention than screaming around here, if you know what I mean. "About what?" I ask, but of course they ignore me.

Roma gets this creepy suggestive face on. "Well-a, do-a you-a remember-a that-a night-a when-a we–"

"Ve are not telling zem about zat eizzer," Alistair snaps, a hint of colour in the pale cheeks I inherited.

…pass the brain bleach?

Roma laughs his huge belly laugh and (thankfully) lets the matter drop, but my curiosity has been piqued. After dinner, I let the others head down to the basement to play hide and seek _**~EXTREME~**_ without me and corner the brunette Italian in the kitchen, where he's doing the dishes. "Roma, what were you trying to tell us about your senior year?"

Roma freezes and shoots a nervous look towards the living room. Seeing that Vati isn't listening, he relaxes, but keeps his voice low. "Ah, no-a sense-a in-a not-a passing the torch-a."

He hands me a towel. "Dry," he instructs, and normally I would make a timely exit at this point, but I want to hear him out. So I oblige, and Roma begins his story.

"Have-a you-a ever been-a an assassin?"

I shake my head. He snorts. "Our-a old-a principal is-a gone now, there's-a no-a reason you-a shouldn't." He hands me a plate. "Assassins…it's a game-a of elimination. The way-a that-a it-a works–"

"–is that everyone in the grade puts in five bucks, that's the pot. Each person is assigned to _one_ other person, so… Say I assigned Lovino to Toni and Ludwig to Lovino. Toni would be chasing Lovi, trying to shoot him and take a picture to prove it. Lovi would be trying to avoid Toni and, meanwhile, trying to shoot Ludwig and get a picture of HIM to prove it. The last one alive takes three-quarters of the pot, and the other quarter goes to the organizers." My eyes grow dollar signs. "There's six hundred people in our grade. That's two hundred and fifty dollars for _each_ of us. Think of how many Mars Bars that is."

Antonio shifts uncomfortably.

"WHAT?!" This sounds like mad fun. I just don't get why they won't do it.

"Um, Gil…" he coughs, "I don't really want to go to jail for Mars Bars…"

I stare at him for a moment.

"Antonio, I love you to pieces but you really are a dummkopf sometimes. You shoot them with squirt guns."

"Oh…OHHHH! Okay, that's fine." Antonio relaxes and smiles happily. Francis hides a chuckle behind his hand. Oh, Toni.

"Now that that's _settled_," I move on with more than a hint of impatience (I'm using italics now, caps lock is _so_ last year), "are you in?"

"Of course! It sounds fun!" Toni beams. That's my boy.

Francis grins. "Oh, yes," he winks. That's a loaded wink, and I abruptly decide that I Do Not Want To Know. I change the subject.

"Well, let's get this thing started, then!"

If only we knew.

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><p><strong>Ugh, the first chapter always sucks.<strong>

**Yes, we do actually play this at my school. The story is vaguely based off last year's game (except the Important Thing That Happens Later On (see, I'm back to capital letters now) was only a rumor (and also there was no gay secks (THAT I KNOW OF (BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT'S ALWAYS THERE (SECRETLY (WHEN NOBODY'S WATCHING (holy crap this is a lot of parentheses (you should be completely drunk by now)))))))), but I'm also interspersing stories from my older brothers' games because they had the best principal for it ever. He absolutely hated the game and tried to get it banned like a million times, and now he's our superintendent and whenever he's at the high school someone brings it up and he's just like *steaming in corner* and and and**

**this is what I do for fun, guys.**

**Review and you get a free gay pass :D**


	2. Enter Maplebutt

Um, hi, I'm Matt.

I respond to Matthew Williams, Mathieu, or Mattie, but if you saw me, you'd probably call me by my brother's name, Alfred Jones. We're near-identical twins, and what with Al having the personality of a Labrador Retriever, he's popular and well-known, whereas I doubt anyone at school besides him and a few of my fellow outcast friends knows that he _has_ a twin.

I'm just about invisible to my peers, actually, and most of the time I don't mind. I lived with my dad in Quebec until I was 14, and I've never really warmed up to America – far too loud, too fast, too in-your-face. I simply float along and tune out the noise, and the world and I are happy to ignore each other.

But there've been many times when I wish that people would just _listen up_.

Like now.

"Um, guys…?" I try, for the sixth time. No such luck; the two boys sitting in the secluded window seat in the back of the library blab away.

I stand there helplessly, hugging the third _Harry Potter_ to my chest. We're far out of sight of the librarian, lost in the maze of floor-to-ceilling bookshelves. As this small corner with a wide window seat overlooking the forest can only be reached by squeezing behind a shelf that looks nothing like what a shelf concealing a secret passage would look like, I'd assumed that I was the only one who knew about it. See, our library got a grant from some famous alumnus with a middle initial, and so it makes up almost half of our school's floor space. It's chock-full of nooks, crannies, and secluded little spots like this one. I come here to skip or just read, and I had assumed that the window seat's existence was known only to me. It's a bit of a rude awakening.

"But Francis, I might not have a chance at mi Lovinito any other way!" the dark-haired one beseeches. His green eyes are fastened to the other's baby blues, huge and imploring. "Pretty pretty please? With drunk Arthur Kirkland on top?"

Arthur Kirkland is our student body president, imported from England and seen as everything from a dreamboat to a bitch to both at the same time.

"Tempting, but non, non," the blonde replies, smiling down at his friend's head on his shoulder. "He must come to you; zat is ze true way of _l'amour_. We shall assign your love to chase _you,_ and so you shall win him over, oui?"

I know who they are, of course. Francis Bonnefoy, my second or third cousin (although he's never acknowledged it) and the biggest manwhore this side of California, and Antonio Carriedo, the soccer star from Spain who's after one of the Vargas twins. They're both fantastically good-looking, and (so I've heard from Alfred, who is still a virgin but apparently knows these things) fantastic in bed as well. Therefore, they make up two-thirds of the reigning trio of heartbreakers, which means the other should be around here somewh–

"What're you doing here, kid?"

Speak of the devil. Uh, no pun intended. (You know, cause his eyes are red and – forget it.) I freeze – I don't know why, but I feel like I'm guilty of something – and turn to face the last member of the self-dubbed Bad Touch Trio. Long and lean, white-haired, red eyes that are more surprised than angry – Gilbert Beilschmidt, the local badass, narcissism walking and second only to Francis in sluttiness.

…He saw me? People rarely do – anyone else in the school would've brushed right by.

"I-I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," I explain at the same time that he clarifies. I rush into my excuse before he can go on. "I-I-I'm sorry, I'll l-l-leave if you want, I j-just wanted to ask you guys to–"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." Gilbert holds up a hand, a disturbingly calculating look beginning to grow in his eyes. "Yo, Francis, Toni, I got the goods." He shifts by me and drops a student directory onto the plush seat. (New gangster currency? I think yes.) "And you–" he crooks a finger at me "–get over here."

I blink a few times, and then take a page from the Vargas' books and try to slink away. No such luck – I choke slightly as the back of my t-shirt is grabbed. "W-w-what do you want?" I squeak. "I d-don't want any t-trouble-"

"Sit," orders the albino. I comply automatically, dropping to the ground. "On the _seat_, dummkopf. Raised in a barn?" I meekly obey, perching uncomfortably on the edge.

Francis and Antonio are looking at me with mild surprise. "Alfred?" Antonio asks.

"Matthew Williams," I mumble. _I was in three of your classes freshman year, two of them sophomore, four junior, and this year's lunch and history. _I don't blame him, though. It's not like he's the first. Or second. Or thirty-eighth.

Gilbert blinks at his friend. "Dude, he's nothing like Alfred. He's got blonder hair and purple eyes and he's not blabbing about how cool he is."

"Oh, okay," smiles Antonio. He's clueless but nice, and that's all you really need to know about him.

"Anyway," Gilbert goes on, in a worryingly businesslike tone, "you–" he pokes my chest with his index finger "–are our first assassin."

Oh, maple, I'm getting involved in something illegal. I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THE MAFIA, I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THE MAFIA–

"Gilbert," says Francis patiently, "you have to stop doing that. He looks like a scared rabbit." Gee, thanks. "Mathieu," the blonde goes on, draping an arm across my shoulder and ignoring my squeak of surprise, "_mon ami_ Gilbert is referring to squirt guns."

"I-I-I'm going to kill people with a super soaker?"

"If you like. I prefer water pistols. So much more class." Gilbert's red eyes glow with excitement. S-s-scary…

Francis _tch_es. "Mathieu, calm down, you're starting to hyperventilate. Gilbo dear, please stop scaring the frosh. It's shameful." He shakes his head in haughty indignation at the disgrace of it all.

"I'm a s-s-senior," I mumble, fully expecting to simply be talked over.

Instead, Gilbert snorts. "You look fourteen, bro scout. Eat yo red meats. I say Hillshire, you say farm! FARM!"

I blink and shrink back into the corner of the window seat, wrapping my arms around the throw pillow and surprised that I'm slightly tempted to giggle. "Beaver?"

"GO DIEGO GO!" Gilbert punches me in the shoulder for no apparent reason. "ANYWAY, to business," he continues. "Matthew Williams, is there anyone you've ever particularly wanted to shoot with a rifle?"

"Mitt Romney?" I reply without thinking.

He lets out some sort of cackle. I smile unsurely. "Nah, mate, at this school."

_Oh._ "I-i-is this c-conversation b-being recorded?" I squeeze my throw pillow uncomfortably. It's small and velvet and has a picture of a horse attacking a football player with a volcano in the background. I have no idea where it came from, but it's currently my best friend, so I hug it like it's my job.

Gilbert snickers. I wasn't joking. "But seriously, answer the question." He shoves the student directory at me. "Have some inspiration, there's gotta be someone in there whose chalk outline would look great on your floor–"

"Roderich Edelstein," I interrupt. I don't even have to look.

See, Roderich… He's never done anything to me in particular, but he pisses me off. He pisses just about everybody off. He's that snobby rich kid who's always giving you a look like you're something nasty a dog did on his manicured front lawn, and if there's one thing New Hampshire can't stand, it's an aristocrat. He has a plethora of nemesises and a wider circle of those who merely dislike him (with the exception of one violent oddball of a girl who is inexplicably in love with him) but nobody does anything beyond Halloween pranks and such because his daddy's in charge of all their parents' jobs. I am already starting to look forward to this.

Gilbert clearly agrees, because he grins that manical grin again and flips to my name in the book. "Excellent choice," he purrs as he scribbles in a kindergartenesque print, SHOOTING: RODERICH EDELSTEIN. He then flicks to the E's and writes next to dear old Roddy's name, SHOT BY: MATTHEW WILLIAMS.

Well, shit, there goes any chance of passing this off on Al.

"Kesesesese~ there's something I'll be watching," the albino smirks. Was that what he calls a _laugh_? I gulp.

"Gilly," Francis interrupts, "can you pleeeease put Arthur Kirkland on mine?" He takes his friend's hand, and rolls onto his back to put his head in Gilbert's lap and give him a hopeful look that I'm pretty sure Dreamworks!PussInBoots has patented. It's a wonder that Gilbert doesn't see the malicious gleam in his eyes that clearly smacks of heartbreaking – and yet Francis has been chasing after Arthur's pants for years and the blonde Brit has always resisted. I don't suppose this time will be any different.

Gilbert melts at his friend's puppy impression. (He likes cute things, I realize with surprise, remembering the yellow bird that I've occasionally seen nested in his hair.) "Okay, okay, But I ain't paying your hospital bill." He obligingly scrawls the name of the prickly sex bomb next to Francis's school picture, which the Frenchy somehow managed to smoulder in. "And you can molest him all you like."

Thus begins the tedious business of selecting names.

I found out later that Gilbert wrote a quick randomization program for most of the assignments. (What, you thought Gilbert wasn't a nerd? Please, his name's GILBERT, that's almost as bad as Augustus or Horace or something.) He only brought up self-assigning some of the names for a bit of extra fun. But I didn't know that when I was glancing nervously at my watch and wondering exactly how long they planned to stay here.

"So Toni, you're going to get chased by Lovi–"

"Ooh, excellent!"

"–and Arthur is after Francis."

"Oh, you know he is!"

"And coming after me will be Yao Wang."

"Gilbert, h-h-he's out of the country."

Red eyes widen in pseudo innocence. "How could I have known? It was done randomly. And Alfred will be chasing Im Yong Soo. And Yong Soo will be chasing…Alfred."

"T-t-that can't be allowed!"

He just laughs.

Antonio sits up curiously. "Gilberto, how are you going to tell people about this? Nobody knows except us, right?"

"Easy one," Gilbert grins. "Yo, Matt, gimme your phone." He grabs it out of my hoodie pocket without waiting for permission, slides it open, and taps out two messages.

_To: Katherine Watson  
>From: XXX-XXX-XXXX<br>hey its sara from gramma's fone guess wat gilbert's starting a big game of assassins lol sounds fun im in hbu?_

_To: Sara Steel  
>From: XXX-XXX-XXXX<br>hey its katherine from gramma's phone guess what gilbert's starting a big game of assassins lol sounds fun im in hbu?_

Great, he sent it to the head cheerleaders. Wonderful.

He hands me back my phone. "It's not like their parents haven't taught them all to play. Consider that bitch done."

"Oh! Gilberto, can your brother chase Feliciano Vargas and vice versa?"

"Duh, they have WAY too much UST for anyone's comfort. Francis, you got any requests?"

"Mm, that one girl from Africa, Michelle. Her dad is insanely protective; if I say it's for school he might let me into the house."

"Who are YOU going to be chasing with a squirt gun, Gilberto?"

"Uh–"

BEEEEEEEP!

"Oh look, there's the bell, gotta fly, see you later!" Gilbert bolts from his seat, grabbing my wrist on the way out and ignoring the protests of Francis and Antonio. We navigate the maze of bookshelves at a run, and sprint past the front desk, earning a deathglare from Miss Mao. (Miss Mao, by the way, is universally known as Miss Me-ow, due to her marvelously sexy, just-out-of-college stripper body, complete with these _huge_…y-you know… A-anyway, I'm only telling you this because if you said 'Miss Mao', nobody would have a clue who you were talking about. I don't think anyone but me knows her real name. Not even the other teachers.) When we're in the hall, Gilbert slows to a walk – well, a strut; Gilbert doesn't just _walk_ – and lets go of my wrist.

"W-w-what the hell?" I snap at him. Only it comes out as more of a meek whimper. Close enough.

He grins fiendishly. "Now, now, couldn't let them try to steal my Idea, could they?"

OH SHIT. That was an Idea. _Capitalized_. That was a CAPITALIZED IDEA. I gulp nervously, slowly beginning to realize that I'm fucked. "What was your idea?"

"I," he beams, "am assigning myself Katuysha Braginski."

"…"

Gilbert plows straight through a group of giggling frosh girls. I wince and whisper-shout a 'sorry' in their direction; they probably wouldn't have heard me even if they hadn't been squealing over the 'senior sex bomb'. "Some applause or rapturous praise is in order, I think."

"Gilbert–"

"Think about it! I'll have an _excuse_ to sneak into her house! ESPECIALLY right before she's changing for bed! Those psychos she shares blood with haven't let me anywhere near her, but now…!" He waves his hands animatedly, accidentally(?) hitting Roderich Edelstein in the face. Roderich's fangirl tries to hit Gilbert in the head with a frying pan, but some poor sophomore walks right in front of the weapon at exactly the wrong time. He turns around and punches Roderich in the face, probably because he wants to punch the douchebag and use misunderstanding as his excuse, and soon it's all-out war. Gilbert doesn't notice, and continues walking. Er, strutting. "And dayum, are those some _huge_–"

"G-G-Gilbert, that's my f-f-friend y-you're talking about!"

"Really?" His eyes light up. "GREAT! So you can get me in, past her son-of-a-bitch brother?"

"W-w-what's wrong with Ivan?" I choose to ignore the request.

Suddenly those red eyes seem much more cold than gleeful. Shit, wrong thing to say.

"I hate Russia," growls Gilbert. "I hate that entire goddamned continent."

I blink. "Russia's on two continents."

He gives me a look that shoots me straight into a flashback.

_I am sitting in the movie theater, eleven years old and alone, eyes trained on the screen. An attractive black girl with a scornful expression stands with her friends. They watch a group of laughing jocks pass by. It is the first day after winter vacation. She curls her lip and makes a sarcastic comment involving their species as they walk by. Although the scene is soon forgotten, the image itself sticks in my mind forever._

I have found Gilbert's celebrity look-alike and it is Taylor McKessie.

ANYWAY.

Gilbert gives me his Taylor McKessie look. "Uh, no, Russia IS a continent."

…What?

"Gil, there's only seven continents."

"Well, yeah. Russia, Prussia, America, the Atlantic Ocean, Japan, Santa's workshop, and the moon." He rolls his eyes. "Didn't you take sixth-grade geography?"

"Gilbert, those aren't continents." Of this I am quite sure.

"Prove it."

I'm floored. "W-w-w-well – uh – CHINA! Where's China in there, hmm?"

"China is on the moon. Duh."

I stare at him dubiously, searching his face for any sign of joking. Nothing.

He stares back, completely straight-faced, before abruptly bursting into laughter. "Kesesesese~ hahaha, Birdie, you're a cute kid, you know that?"

…_Birdie?_ I don't know whether to be annoyed or amused, and settle with rolling my eyes. Dealing with Gilbert seems like dealing with a nicer, more intelligent Alfred (who would have been dead serious about Russia). "Sure, Gilbert."

He just laughs more. "You're pretty awesome, Matthew Williams," he decides. "But not as awesome as me."

I roll my eyes again, but I'm smiling. "Yeah, yeah." We've reached the door, and I lift my hand and wave as we separate – me to my precious pickup, him to his…is that the Batmobile? "Goodbye, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"Hasta la vista, Birdie," he shouts back.

It isn't until I'm halfway home that I realize that that was the longest conversation I've ever had.

**A/N: GAY PASSES FOR EVERYONE *throws paper at screen***

**sorry for excessive cursing if it bothers you. If it doesn't, sorry in advance for the times when it does. I read somewhere that Canada curses the most out of all primarily English-speaking countries, and acted accordingly.**

**um, it does bug me when authors promise that the next chapter will be better, but srsly. the actual game is starting and that'll last about the rest of the fic (it's looking like 9 chapters total right now), and there is spamano and a smattering of fruk, and roddy and katuysha feature and and and**

**review and receive **


	3. Giggles

**This chapter is titled 'Giggles' because that's all they fucking talk about -_-**

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, PruCan would be canon. Also, Brown is based off my old coach, except he moved to Simsbury, not Poland, which is worse. -_- Oh, and the "you ain't much" thing is taken from one of my camp's old lifeguards. (Believe me, it's true. He was some hot stuff.)**

**THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK THIS IS A BREAK**

_Hmm…if I were a Matt, where would I be?_

I know he has a car, so he has to be out at the senior lot _somewhere_ – aha! I grin as I head towards the adorable Canadian. Ah, Matt. I've known him for a grand total of two days, and I already recognize his _I-should-be-getting-raped-by-giant-tentacles-right-now_ look.

…What? He's just so _cute_. He's got these huge purple eyes and wavy blonde hair that's probably even softer than it looks. He's more muscled than you'd think, but it doesn't show underneath his baggy clothes. He stutters and squeaks and trips over his own feet. Freaking _adorable_.

Of _course_ he's been recruited to the cause of Awesome. I shall call him Matt and he shall be mine. Nah, I think I'm gonna call him Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce. It sounds cuter.

He's just standing there, biting his lip (adorably), looking lost and unsure. There is really only one thing for awesome to do.

"INCOMING!"

"A-Alfred? C-can't breathe-" he gasps out, struggling slightly. "Al-you're a dick-get off-"

Okay, that was uncalled for. I do my best impression of Mattie's douchebag of a brother. "HAI GUIZ I LIKE HAMBURGERS LOLOLOL I'M IN DENIAL THAT ARTIE HATES ME AHAHAHAHAHA HERO"

He twists around to see my beauty. "Gilbert?" I give myself an approving once-over in the reflection of his glasses. Yep, still sexy.

"Mattie!" I grin and release him, except for an arm over his shoulder to steer the Canadian towards my beautiful car. "Antonio's cat ran away and Francy-pants got his period, so you are allowed to enjoy my presence on this very fine afternoon!"

"O-okay – wait, what?!" He's stumbling beside me, looking confused as all hell. "Wait- Gilbert, why is there a Batman symbol on your hood?"

I giggle. Yeah, I giggled. I am such a badass, you don't even know. I am dangerously peppy today. Somebody should shoot me. "Impulse graffiti?"

"Don't you ever think about resale values?!"

Suddenly, a dark-haired blur zips in front of us, cursing loudly in Italian. It's followed by the ever-cheerful Antonio, singsonging "Loviii~ Oh, hola, Gilberto, Matteo. Vidiste mi tomatito?"

I point towards the tennis courts, where Lovino is piling up tennis balls with a grim determination. "Good luck, bro scout," I call after Antonio, who's skipping towards his doom and singing something about lollipops under his breath.

Matthew glances at me – god _damn_ it, he's taller than me. Only by like half an inch, but still, that's demeaning. "H-his _kitty_ ran away?"

I shrug. "In a manner of speaking. Come on, last one to the Batmobile's a Robin egg!"

"W-wait! I have homework and…" His voice trails off as he hurries after me. I stifle a smirk as I vault into the driver's seat and throw him my most wicked grin.

"What's the matter, Matthew Williams? Scared?" I rev the engine. He looks conflicted, but finally gets in shotgun, by way of the door. (Why would anyone use a door when the top's down? People are so weird sometimes.)

"What are we even doing?" he asks as I back out of Arthur's parking space. "Gil, I don't want to be in the mafia – oh, maple, you want me to be in the mafia, don't you–" He's getting more and more flustered by the second. I am greatly amused by this. "G-Gilbert, I don't want to be in the mafia!"

"Matt. Calm down." I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"_You are abducting me to join the mafia!"_

I pull out of the senior lot. Antonio appears to be storming the tennis court, where Lovi's making an ungodly ruckus. "GET A ROOM, TOMATO CHILDREN," I holler at them, barely dodging an angry tennis ball that flies in my direction. Jeez, only Lovi could make a tennis ball seem angry. "Matt, chill out. I'm not in the mafia. Talk to Lovino's dad about that." I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner.

"That's what you would say if you were in the mafia!" he protests.

Aw, shit, I can't help it – I chuckle. "Okay, Matt, you caught me. I'm in the mafia. You're my new lieutenant. We're going shooting." I jerk my head at the pile of squirt guns behind his seat. "Arm yourself wisely, my minion."

"I-I'm a _what_?!"

"Minion. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce, to be specific." I glance at his face and snicker. "Toni and Francis are Lieutenant Fluffy and Lieutenant Flaming. I'm Sergeant Two Chainz. We are the mafia and this whole damn high school is our bitch. You've been recruited. Salute, bro."

He salutes, unsurely. "If you're the sergeant, then who do you answer to?"

"Morgan Freeman. Oh, we're here!" I pull up next to the McDick's drive-thru window. "Yo, Brochelle." I grin at Michelle, the girl Francis is gonna be shooting with a squirt gun.

She smiles back. "Hi, Gilbert. You're supposed to order at the speaker back there."

"Oh, we're not here for food. Matt, pass me that Hulk super-soaker, would you? Thanks. Here, Shelly, can you stock this thing in there? Just tell the other worker people that if a sexy, beautiful, awesome, gorgeous, amazing Prussian albino runs up, toss this to him real quick. Also goes for this one–" I ruffle Matt's hair "–or Tonio or Francy-pants, kay?"

She takes the super-soaker and salutes. "Got it."

"You're the best, bro. Deuces, Shellfish, Sergeant Two Chainz and Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce OUT!" I flash something that I think is a gang sign at Matt as we roll away. "God, we are just so damn gangster." The kid looks torn between disbelief, laughter, and terror. "Yo, do I smell bad or did your face stick like that?"

"Y-you're insane, Gilbert!"

"That's _Sergeant_ to you." He finally breaks and starts to giggle. "You laugh like a girl." I mean, not that I can talk. "All right, Lieutenant, where to next? Okay, you can stop laughing now, it wasn't that funny – aw, shit, this is about the gang sign, isn't it?" I groan and drop my head to the steering wheel. "Maaatttttt…"

Matt coughs a couple times and regains control. "U-um, Stop & Shop?"

"Yes!" I hit the steering wheel with my hands in excitement, setting off the horn. The driver next to me jumps a mile, but it's Arthur so it's okay. "TO STOP & SHOP!"

"U-um, could we get some beer while we're there?"

I glance curiously at my minion. His expression is as innocent as ever. "Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce, do you have a fake ID on you?"

He offers a hesitant smile. "We don't have to pay for it…"

Do you ever have that one really quiet person who suddenly says something crazy and you wonder why the hell they don't talk more? I just got that. I beam at him, ruffling his hair with one hand. "You're all right, kid."

"Gil, I'm taller than you."

"Fuck you."

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"A-and then he said 'But you look so much like me', and you know what I said?"

"What did you say, Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce?" I am intrigued. Fuck 'coming out of your shell', Matt's come out of a hole in the corner of a dark basement underneath a manor in Transylvania, and he didn't even do the Time Warp. When we were planting guns at the big fountain downtown, he cannonballed in when I was hiding the big one and got me completely soaked. I was so proud I nearly cried.

He waves his strawberry milkshake in the air. I hang out with Francis enough to know that ordering a strawberry milkshake is equal to twirling out of the closet covered in glitter and wearing rainbow skinny jeans. I doubt Matt does, though, so I'll let him off for now. Also because he's introduced me to the best café and milkshake bar in the state. "I said 'Fuck you'."

I bark a laugh. "Did you really?" I am now fully realizing that I am hanging out at a café. I'm turning either gay or hipster. Shit. Aw, fuck it, they have those badass straws that change color and I'm already half gay anyway. I still got a chocolate, though. Ain't no party like a milkshake party. Now we have to wait for boys to come to our yard…

"I did." He drains the rest of his Gay Juice. "Um, Mr. Waiter, another strawberry milkshake, please?" Matt turns back to me. "And you know what I told him next?"

"What did you tell him, Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce?" He's gonna be a crazy drunk, I can tell. I have a drunkdar. Oh man, I have got to get some alcohol into this kid and watch.

"I told him to mow my lawn WITH HIS TESTICLES." I choke violently on my chocolate milkshake. "And that SHOWED him!" He slams his fist down on the bar, and I barely catch my glass before it spills. "Also, I told him to go fuck a hippie and I threw something at him. I think it was a velociraptor but I'd been smoking with Dutch earlier so I could be wrong…"

Dutch is this tall kid from the Netherlands. Nobody knows his actual name because whenever anyone asks, he fixes them in their place with this intimidating hooded-eyes look and rumbles "_You ain't much if you ain't Dutch"_. He's basically our school's pot industry. And he's friends with _Matt_? Hot damn. It's always the quiet ones.

"You showed him, bro scout."

He stares into his milkshake like he's reading tea leaves. "Sarge, when I was little, I had a cat and I named him Bessie. Do you have a pimp cane on you?"

Is this what being the most normal person in the room feels like? It's odd. "Matt, I think you've had a bit too much milkshake."

"I'M A GOOFY GOOBERRRRR~" He's giggling again. I mean, it's cute, but this kid is tweaking out on milkshakes. It's a little worrisome.

"Bro, I'm gonna bring you home now." I grunt as I attempt to drag him out of his seat. "Jeez, lose a few pounds." He's still chugging the strawberry. "LIEUTENANT ROCK-SOLID DEUCE!"

To my surprise, he immediately snaps to attention. "SIR!"

I glare up (okay, it's not THAT much up) at him. "Lieutenant, this improper conduct must cease! Proceed to the Batmobile, double time!" Matt marches out of the place like a fucking wind-up toy.

I drop a ten on the bar and follow, already formulating a Plan.

Matt got eggs at Stop & Shop (something about making pancakes), and our principal's house is maybe a minute away…

_**To**__: Ludwig Beilschmidt  
><em>_**From**__: Five Meters  
><em>_**Message**__: hey luddy-kins tell vati im not gonna be home for a while. partyin hard w/ this canadian kid i found. dont worry i'll blame collateral damage on roddy. love ya little bro_

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_**Matthew**_

The embarrassment takes a full day to wear off.

I-I spazzed out, okay? I'd spent lunch with Dutch and my friend Manny at the smoker's pit, as always – I wasn't actually smoking, but I must've gotten buzzed secondhand, cause I'd been feeling stoned all afternoon. And I was sort of in shock about, you know, _Gilbert._ I can only count on a couple of people to remember me – Katuysha, Manny, and Dutch; not even my own family. A-and now he's coming straight out of left field and not only remembering me but _paying attention_ to me – I freaked out.

I can't think about our afternoon adventure without blushing. It didn't help that Alfred will never let me forget how I'd stumbled in the front door at four in the afternoon, with an absurd smile as I waved goodbye to Gilbert – whom, my brother insisted, I'd been calling _Gilly_.

But I don't have much time to think about it, because the game is starting.

(…)

(…wait.)

(The game.)

(THE GAME.)

(FFFFUUU-)

I know how to play; everyone does. We've learned at camps, or from friends and relatives. Gil, Francis, and Antonio did the whole assignment thing by email, so it's all happened lightning-fast. All anyone needs to do is take a picture proving their shot and text it to one of the Bad Touch Trio's phones, and it's marked. The school itself is marked DMZ, because of the obvious issue of seeing your target in class, but the second anyone steps outside – that is, whenever they have a free period – they're fair game. The game starts officially on Friday morning, to give people the weekend to set up their traps.

I go to school on Friday expecting organized chaos, and am met with completely anarchy.

Even supposing that our eccentric high school with its abnormally large percentage of ethnically-diverse homosexuals could have ever been called _calm_ in the first place…

Well, if you're ever desperate to motivate teenagers, the solution is green.

(Um, I mean money, not leaves, grass, Irish people, Arthur's cooking, etc.)

Within the space of a day, the senior class is transformed into an every-man-for-himself first-person shooter game.

Nobody is safe. Brightly colored plastic revolvers are the standard, but less-honest assassins resort to crooked measures like tiny one-shot pistols and promising their assigned person "I've already been shot, don't worry". The hallway falls into awed silence whenever a super soaker and its bearer pass by. Vash Zwingli, an ever-resourceful Swiss boy in my French class, is selling shields – light wire-and-plastic-wrap things, but he's making serious money off them.

After third period English, Alfred tells me that three hundred people are already out, which means around fifty. The weakest ones, those who haven't sufficiently armed themselves or are more susceptible to trickery, are probably all getting wiped out right from the start. After today, I'll have to stick inside. With locked doors. And windows.

At lunch, fifth period, Gilbert hijacks me on my way into the cafeteria. "Matt, I was looking for you! Come on, come on! This is HUGE!"

"Uh?" is the most comprehensible reply I can manage. He's tugging me towards the back of the caf, which opens onto a patio. It's empty, for obvious reasons – except for two boys standing in the middle. "I-is that Antonio and Lovino?"

Every human in the caf is pressed up against the glass, staring, even the lunch ladies. Gilbert wedges himself in next to Francis, and hisses "come on!" to me. I squeeze in, rather uncomfortable at the proximity to Gilbert on one side and a tall, blonde, Swedish lunch lady named Berwald on the other, but curious enough to watch the two seniors in the courtyard.

Antonio's holding a tiny red water pistol, one of the stealth ones, above his head. He's got a smug smile that looks disturbingly out of place on his kind face. Lovino is jumping as high as he can and slamming at the Spaniard's chest with his fists, but Antonio isn't even phased. The windows are all open, and we can hear every word as he teases, "No, _mi Lovinito_, not until you promise not to shoot me~"

"B-bastard!" Lovi sounds furious, with a slight hint of panic. "I have to win this! I–" With no warning whatsoever, he wraps his arms around Antonio's neck and kisses him.

A shared shriek of astonishment rises from the flabbergasted group in the cafeteria. (Well, mine is more of a quiet gasp. I don't really do shrieks.) The two boys don't seem to care. Toni's green eyes widen with surprise, and then settle into half-closed bliss. His hands creep down to rest on Lovino's hips, and Lovi leans into him – oh my goodness, is that _tongue_?

I'm beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable watching this, when all of a sudden, Lovino twists to the right and snatches his water pistol from Toni's hand. The Italian slides fully free of the other's grip, spins a full 360, and fires off a perfect shot, leaving a wet spot soaking the front of a stunned Antonio's green button-down. Before you can say "mafia training", he's dropped the pistol, snatched his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture, and turned to go, flashing two middle fingers over his shoulders and hips swaying with the distinct strut of a woman who knows she's won.

(Did you hear that? That was the sound of this going on every Facebook in the school. It was loud.)

I drop my head to let my hair hang down and shield my face, horribly embarrassed and sad for Antonio that so many people have borne witness to his rejection. It might not be his first, but I'm pretty sure Lovino's never used a kiss against him before.

But suddenly, a murmur through the crowd raises my head.

There's a kind of pathetic beauty in the way he's still following Lovino, even after this.

I cover my eyes in shame, and then open my fingers to peek through them. Antonio has caught Lovi's wrist, and the smaller boy is frozen, except for goosebumps crawling down his cheek and neck from where Antonio is breathing something into his ear.

Nobody except Lovino can hear what he's whispering, but the whole world can see the tears welling in Lovino's eyes when Antonio steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets, a sad, hopeless smile still fixed on his face. The whole world is watching when Lovino stutters, turns bright red, and grabs his Spanish boy by the shoulders, kissing him with a passion that the Mediterranean is famous for…

I gawk. So does the rest of the cafeteria.

Uh huh, we just got some Mediterranean sun up in this house, cause things are getting _veeery_ hot in New Hampshire.

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_Cricket, cricket_.

No, really. That's my text tone. I thought I was quite clever when I set it; no teacher would ever try to find a cricket. The downside is that whenever a real cricket chirps, I think it's my phone. I pull out the phone anyway, holding it under the desk. Not that Mr. White, my math teacher, would notice in this uproar. He's fresh out of college and pretty clearly has a best friend in Feliks, a Polish boy who's almost as sassy and gay as White is. They, along with the rest of the class, have been going on about Antonio and Lovino's romance for the past half hour. I have a bad feeling that we have a new power couple.

_From: Sergeant Two Chainz_

…When did he add himself to my contacts?

_Message: yo lieutenant RSD, meet me my locker asap after 8th. its right next to the ag wing. come armed, we r watering roderich to see if he grows_

**k sure but arent u on track? what abt practice?**

_practice is off indefinitely_

**wtf?! track is NEVER canceled**

_coach left_

**where is he?**

_poland_

**he moved 2 poland?**

_britney is banned in poland_

**oh k**

That explains it. It's no secret how much Brown hates Britney Spears. Everyone avoids the track when they're practicing, because whenever a runner has a spare breath they're belting out _Womanizer_. Between that and the amount of general hellraisers on his team – Gilbert, Dutch, and this tall Danish kid named Mathias, to name a few – I don't really blame Brown for his flight.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and start doodling a Canadian flag on my desk. The end of the day can't come quickly enough.

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I have to stop at my locker to grab a water gun. Gilbert's locker is on the other side of the school from mine – Beilschmidt and Williams aren't exactly close. (Maybe we should find someone with a last name that begins with M, so we can be BMW.) He's digging through it, eyebrows furrowed. I pause at the end of the Ag wing, next to the giant horse they have there, unsure about how one disturbs someone.

I notice that his eyebrows are white, and then wonder why I'm surprised. I mean, I knew that all the hair on someone's body is the same color – it's how everyone knows that Dutch's sister Femke, a junior, is naturally blonde like I'm naturally a redhead. Yeah, I can see from here that the hair on his legs and arms are pure white. I wonder…?

I flush bright red as my brain catches up with my wandering thoughts and gives them a stern lecture.

Suddenly, Arthur Kirkland sprints by, tears glistening on his cheeks. A moment later, Francis skids around the corner, catches sight of the blonde, and chases after him, calling, "Mon cher, I do not understand, why are you angry?"

Gilbert glances up and dismisses them, before noticing me. "Sup, Matt."

H-he noticed me?

Suddenly I feel all giggly inside.

This has got to stop. I am _Canadian_. I lumberjacked in my spare time back in Canada. I am so manly that I sleep with a _polar bear teddy bear._ I am a MAN. Men do not get giggly feelings. Now would be a good time to change the subject.

I glance curiously after Arthur. "What's with him?"

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Well, Francis took Arthur's phone and changed his own contact information. Only for his number, he put 867-5309 and Arthur thought it was some sort of joke, and flipped a shit because 'that's not funny'–" The German (er, _Prussian_, as he had informed me vehemently) treats me to a bad impression of a British accent "–and Francis was confused because he was trying to ask Arthur out, and it all went to hell. Those two are hopeless. The only way they'll make up is by screwing each other senseless."

I feel like I'm on Glee, and tell Gilbert so.

"…Now that you mention it. When did our lives turn into a TV show?"

I giggle at the idea before I catch myself. This giggling business has got to stop. "Oh, nobody would watch that sort of thing. It wouldn't be more than random scenes with fanfiction that had much more plot than the show itself–"

"They would watch it for my ass."

"Oh, please–"

"I'm serious! It could be called…Gilbutt!"

"People would only watch it to stare at the characters."

A smirk crawls across his face and clings there like a slime mold. "So…you're admitting the sexiness of my butt?"

"Wh-no!" I giggle again and then realize what I'm doing. _Dammit, Matt, every time you giggle God kills a kitten!_ "Gilbert…"

"Ja?"

"Let's go shoot people."

He grins. "Just let me grab my man purse. Fix your face, Mattie, it's not actually a man purse." He finds it in his backpack. It's definitely a man purse. He withdraws a revolver, which I almost expect to be pearl handled. It's not, it's clear orange plastic. Gilbert is looking frighteningly excited, and notices my questioning glance. "See, Roderich's my cousin… Don't look at me like that, he's, like, a fourth or fifth, not first. He used to be hella fun to mess with at family reunions, but then he moved here and I got bored with it." He grins his shark-grin. "It'll be just like old times. So here's the plan…"

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"Roderich Edelstein," Gilbert drawls, leaning against the wall behind the dark-haired aristocrat. "How goes life?"

Roderich freezes and slowly turns, violet eyes a mix of distaste and fear. "Gilbert. Go away." He not-so-discreetly shuffles behind his fangirl, a sweet-looking girl with a pretty face who would just as soon beat your ass into the ground as look at you. "Elizabeta?"

The fangirl grins creepily, lifts her weapon of choice, a frying pan, and advances on Gilbert – but pauses when he leans forward and whispers something in her ear. Her green eyes light up and she steps back, mumbling under her breath, "Yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi…"

Roderich gapes, having lost his only line of defense. His eyes are wide and frightened, and he trembles, poised to flee. "W-what did you say to her?!"

"I told her I'd do this." In a flash, he pins Roderich against the lockers, and, before the snob can protest, captures his lips in a forceful kiss. Roderich struggles mightily, but he can't escape. Meanwhile, Elizabeta has pulled a camera out of nowhere and is filming like there's no tomorrow.

Gilbert draws back, smirking. Before Roderich can shriek, he cuts him off. "Roderich. Horrible name."

"What's wrong with my name?" Roderich protests indignantly, completely sidetracked. I quietly step out of the science room behind him, having entered it through the other door to avoid detection.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "It's so damn LONG. Three syllables, ugh. You need a nickname–"

"NO, I DON'T."

"Yes you do," the albino grins. "I hereby dub thee…HOT ROD." Just…one…moment, and…

"WHAT?!"

Roderich's squawk is cut off by the beautiful noise of a pump-action Super Soaker. Roderich glances up and in my direction for one perfect, slo-mo split second before the water hits him, knocking his glasses off with the spirit of a thousand neighborhood water fights. In a flash, Gilbert has his phone out and snaps a picture of Roderich, who has an uncanny resemblance to a wet cat – soaked, bedraggled, and livid. "Sorry, Hot Rod, gotta fly!" And then we're sprinting away, both laughing our heads off as we return to Gilbert's locker.

**To: **_Churro; Froggy  
><em>**From: **_Five Meters_**  
>Attachment: <strong>_img_ [download]  
><em>**Message**: _Matthew Williams kills Roderich Edelstein. We'd like to thank COD for teaching mad sneak attack skills…_

And that was the first day of Assassins.

If only we know how little time we had left.

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**A/N: Reviews give me warm and fuzzy feelings. I love all of you.**

**I have this headcanon that Canada is a pothead. He's also a gleek because every Canadian I know (besides Maddie dearest) is one, and it's okay that he's a boy gleek because I spent a week in England with one of those and it is actually not a joke.**

**Manny = Cuba (geddit, cause Manny Ramirez and drugs and – ah, forget it)**

**Dutch = Dutch is clearly Liechtenstein**

**This was so damn long you don't even know I was going to split it in two because I'm a rower and hearing '5k' makes me want to cry but I wanted to be nice to readers cause I haven't updated in like a year and asdfjsadfjk so I compromised and Katuysha is next chapter. Also because I had a draft and then I honest-to-god completely rewrote this in six hours and that's about as easy as a nun. dfjasldjflskadljf**

**I wrote "there's a kind of pathetic beauty in the way he's still following Lovino, even after this" and immediately thought of a tumblr romance**

**DO A BROTHA A FAVOR AND REVIEW, YO. SERGEANT TWO CHAINZ AND LIEUTENANT ROCK-SOLID DEUCE OUT. DOLLA DOLLA BILLZ**


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